


Seven Months

by Raindropsonwhiskers



Series: Should I Stay-verse [5]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: (alcohol equivalent but. y'know), 5+1 Things, Alcohol, Chameleon Arch (Doctor Who), Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Mutual Pining, Other, Pining, Unrequited Crush, but like. only kind of because of the Arch, from one angle, from the other angle!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28978350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raindropsonwhiskers/pseuds/Raindropsonwhiskers
Summary: Or, Five Times O Realized He Was A Bit In Love With The Doctor, And One Time She Loved Him Back
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Series: Should I Stay-verse [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1790815
Comments: 26
Kudos: 34





	1. 1 - Flat Tour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time last year, I posted the first chapter of Should I Stay Or Should I Go. It was a little rough around the edges, but everyone was so supportive as I continued to work on it. Writing this fic was one of the things that helped keep me busy during the mess that was 2020, and I couldn't have done that without all of the wonderful people who read and left kudos and comments and kept me going. So, whether you started reading this series back at the very beginning, or just caught up today... from the bottom of my heart, thank you so much for supporting this fic and helping me grow as a writer. Hopefully, 2021 will be even better <3

The promotion comes as a complete surprise. O knows he's good at what he does, but between his tendency to stay quiet and the fact that he never really made an effort to ingratiate himself to the higher-ups, a spontaneous promotion to the main London office wasn't something he was really expecting. Still, it's an excuse to get away from his rather overbearing family and to make more money, so when he gets the offer, he says yes in a heartbeat.

Then, of course, come all of the packing and the moving and the staying-in-a-hotel-room-until-he-finds-a-flatmate. It's not _ideal,_ but he hadn't had enough time to arrange for more long-term accommodations in the hustle and bustle of everything else. Within a day, though, he's got an interview lined up already - a person who goes only by 'the Doctor', with a nice two bedroom, two bathroom flat only a twenty minute bus ride from his office, at a very reasonable price. It sounds perfect.

O shows up at exactly six thirty, fresh from work and hoping that he doesn't look as awkward as he feels. The flat is on the second floor of the building, so he's still slightly winded when he knocks on the royal blue door.

A moment later, his breath is completely taken away by the woman who opens it.

She's _beautiful._ Her short blonde hair frames an elegant face, sharp-angled but kind. Hazel eyes go slightly wide as she meets his gaze, and he quickly looks away - the intensity of her focus is a tiny bit intimidating. Instead, he glances at her clothing; the soft violet jumper and black trousers she's wearing fit her well. He's always liked the color purple.

After a brief second, O remembers that he's supposed to be talking, not just staring at her like a lovestruck idiot.

"Are you the Doctor?" he manages. "I'm O - er, Oswald. Everybody calls me O, though."

The woman blinks at him, and then gives her head a tiny shake and smiles brightly. "Yep, that's me! Come on in, I'll show you around."

She steps back, holding the door open, and O is careful not to brush against her as he heads into the flat. He doesn't want to make her uncomfortable or anything - especially not if he's going to be living with her. Boundaries, and all that.

It's a pretty flat, he supposes. An open layout that lets him see the small kitchen, the table, and the living room in one glance, and then a hallway off to one side that most likely leads to the bedrooms. Nothing special, really, or out of the ordinary. The one thing that does catch his eye is the pile of scattered parts on the coffee table in the living room; there's what looks like half of a toaster, the mangled corpse of an alarm clock, and a mass of wires and cords that looks more akin to a nest of snakes than any tool O's ever seen.

"Sorry about the mess," the Doctor says. "I tinker a lot."

"No, it's fine!" he says quickly. "I don't mind."

She smiles again, and O can't help the way his lips quirk up in reply. The Doctor's excitement seems to be contagious. There's something utterly enchanting about her, something familiar, something that draws him in like a warm embrace. O knows, instinctively, that this is the place he wants to live.

"Right!" The Doctor finally looks away from him, seeming just a bit flustered. "I'll give you a proper tour, then."


	2. 2 - Moving Day

Less than a week - and by that, he really means all of two days - after meeting the Doctor, O's moving in. Most of his things are still packed from the first move, so in theory it should be easy enough to get them over to the flat. In practice, however, it's a little difficult to move two suitcases, four large plastic bins, and one overstuffed laptop bag in one trip. Being completely new to London, and not overly close to any of his coworkers, O resigns himself to taking several tedious bus rides.

He texts the Doctor to let her know ahead of time that he might take a while, and as he's hefting one suitcase into the lift, his phone buzzes with her reply.

**The Doctor 💜💜:**

_ Do you want me to come over and help you? _

_ Two people means half the trips _

**O:**

_ You don't have to, but I certainly wouldn't mind the help… _

**The Doctor 💜💜:**

_ Ill be right over! _

O smiles down at his phone, then sighs when he realizes that this means he'll have to take the suitcase back to his room to wait until she gets to the hotel. It's just the right size to be annoyingly bulky, and thus deeply inconvenient to carry. But now that the Doctor's helping, things will go a lot faster.

Fifteen minutes later, which is  _ remarkable _ given London buses and how far away the flat is, O's phone buzzes again.

**The Doctor 💜💜:**

_ Im at the hotel. Meet me outside? _

**O:**

_ Yep! Give me just a minute. _

Before heading down, O runs a hand through his hair and checks himself over in the mirror. He looks fine, if a little scruffy, but he hadn't thought to shave in the morning. Not that it matters; he's going to be living with the Doctor soon enough, and he's sure she's going to see him in far more embarrassing states than this. Still, he can't quite curb the urge to impress her.

Over the past two days, they've texted a fair bit, and she seems positively fascinating. Her day job is something about robotic engineering, but by her own admission the Doctor dabbles in all sorts of subjects. Astronomy, physics, hiking, programming… the list goes on and on, and O is a little bit awed. She seems to be a proper genius, and yet she's wonderfully down to Earth about it all; more than happy to explain when he'd asked questions, and delighted when they had ended up in a tangent about physics - one of the few topics where he could at least keep up with her, if only because of a personal interest in it.

He takes the stairs instead of the lift, since they're much quicker, and he can see the Doctor across the lobby the minute he steps out of the stairwell. She beams and waves at him, heedless of the other people in the room. It makes his heart flutter a little bit as she walks up to him.

"Hey, O!" she says, still smiling, though her hands are now in the pockets of a long, pale blue coat. The loose fabric gives her a bit of a dramatic silhouette, but it really works for her. "So, where's your room?"

"It's on the fourth floor, room twelve," he replies. "There's a lift, but it's pretty slow, so I was thinking we could take the stairs up?"

The suggestion comes out more like a question than he intended to. His nerves are getting to him, clearly, though why he's so nervous is beyond him.

The Doctor nods. "Sounds like a plan. Lead the way!"

After two trips - one for the suitcases, one for the plastic bins - O is finally, properly moved in to the flat. The Doctor had given him the master bedroom, insisting that she didn't mind, and though his various personal effects are still packed, it already feels like home. The dark red comforter and sheets on the bed are soft, the hardwood floor is pleasantly cool even with the chill of March, and the whole place just seems like it was made with him in mind. Which is impossible, obviously, but O still takes it as another little sign that this was all meant to be.

It's perfect. Everything about this is perfect.


	3. 3 - Nightmare

_ Blood. A drum beat tied to his own heart, inescapable and deafening. Stars blinking out of existence as Time warps and twists around itself like string, like melting paint, like clay shattered and put together wrong. Agony tearing through him as he dies and it doesn't stick. Blood on his hands - but that's nothing new, really, nothing to be scared of. He's been bloodstained ever since he was a child, meant for war. _

_ A child, a child. Shivering, shuddering, screaming and tied to a chair as someone they once trusted takes and takes and takes from them. They should have nothing left to give, but that would mean that it could end, and it never ends, an infinite and timeless torture. He wants to stop it, but all he can do is watch as his mind  _ **_burns._ **

_ He's dying. He's in a forest, looking up at a starless sky and he is dying, shot in the back and the irony of it is, he did this to himself. The grass beneath him is stained with his own blood, drawn by his own hand, and he's going to die like this and he'll deserve it. He's going to burn up and become something new, something built from the old pieces of himself, and- _

"O, wake up." The Doctor's voice is soft but firm, an order edged with something that isn't quite panic.

Frantic, he blinks, his mind going from the hazy images of dreams to dimly lit reality. He's clutching a pillow in his arms, shaking and oh, his face is wet, that's probably the tears that he feels choking his throat. The Doctor is crouched beside his bed, and he can barely make out the look of concern on her face.

"'M alright," O mumbles, though he feels anything but. "Sorry for waking you."

Her expression softens immediately into something more sympathetic. "You didn't, it's okay. Is this the first time you've had nightmares this bad before?"

"Think so," he says, and then adds, "Not sure. Don't usually remember my dreams."

She frowns, and even half-asleep as he still is, O feels bad for causing that. He hates seeing her genuinely upset, genuinely  _ worried. _ Especially when it's over him.

"Tell me if you have another one, okay?" she asks softly. "I might be able to find something that can help you sleep better."

He raises an eyebrow, though he's not sure how well it comes across. "Thought you weren't that kind of doctor."

That makes her laugh, and O's heart soars. The stupid thing does that every time he sees her, though; every time he makes her laugh or smile, every time her hand brushes against his or he gets to see her soft and ridiculous and  _ real. _ He's willing to admit that he might be a little bit in love with her.

"I'm not, really, but you'd be surprised at what I can find," she smiles. Gentle, so light that he barely feels the touch, she brushes a few strands of hair out of his face, and her hand trails ever so slightly along his cheek when she pulls back. More than anything, he wants to lean in, but she's standing up before he even has a chance. "Go back to sleep, O. I'll see you in the morning."


	4. 4 - Theta

O has had a thoroughly exhausting week at work. They've taken on a new, demanding client, who's been nothing but berating and unreasonable, every single printer in the entire office jammed simultaneously on Wednesday for the entire work day, and on top of all of that, one of the analysis programs started randomly deleting data, which did  _ nothing _ to help with the first problem in addition to being an issue on its own. In short, he's burnt out and more than ready to go home, reheat leftovers from when he'd had enough energy to actually cook, and watch a stupid sci-fi movie with the Doctor until he feels like a human being again.

The flat is within sight, so close that O can almost taste the microwaved pasta, when he hears a pitiful little meow. Startled, he looks around for the source, but doesn't see anything. Then, again, a plaintive yowl.

There aren't very many places the sound could be coming from; most of the buildings are too closely packed to really have alleyways between them. The only real options are the narrow alley one house over from his own flat, and the back street that winds behind the next block of buildings. From what he can tell, it's the former.

O weighs his options - on the one hand, he's nearly asleep on his feet, and searching for the cat making the noise is likely to be long, tedious, and unrewarding. On the other, though… he can't just leave the poor thing if it's in some sort of trouble.

He'll go check, real quick. Just to make sure that it's only some stray making a nuisance of itself, and not actually injured or anything.

Cautious, O steps towards the alleyway, eyes peeled for any sign of the cat. As if the thing knows he's looking, another crescendoing meow comes from the gap between buildings. O clicks his tongue softly, hoping to call the cat closer. He doesn't get a response, though, so he moves closer - slow, half crouching to make himself look less threatening.

It's just dark enough that he can't quite make out what's in the shadows, so he pulls his mobile out and turns on the torch. Shining it through the darkness, he sees a wriggling lump underneath a tarp. A moment later, the lump yowls.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," O says gently, stepping closer to the tarp. It's held down by bricks, clearly meant to stay in place. He can't help but wonder how the cat got itself under there in the first place. "I'm going to get you out."

Kneeling down on the ground, heedless of the way it's probably ruining his trousers - he needs to do laundry anyhow - O removes two of the bricks from along one edge of the tarp and carefully reaches on hand under it, feeling around for the cat. When his hand finds matted fur, he expects the cat to hiss or lash out, but instead it goes quiet and actually follows his touch, inching toward the gap in the tarp.

The cat that finally crawls out is a disgruntled-looking longhair, fur matted and discolored, eyes glinting yellow in the torchlight. It looks at O, flicks its tail, and then steps even closer and rubs its head against his knee.

"There, see? Told you."

He gives the cat a quick pat on the head, then stands and heads back out of the alleyway, toward his flat. As he's stopped and messing with the door, something hits him gently in the back of the leg. When O glances down, he sees the same cat, staring up at him with wide eyes.

"Look, I can't just bring you in," he explains. "I've got a flatmate, and she owns the place, and I have no idea how she feels about cats."

Undeterred by his logic, the cat blinks at him. After a moment, it starts to purr, which only makes O feel guiltier. He's pretty sure he's being emotionally manipulated by a cat right now, and the worst part is that it's working.

O sighs. "I'll ask her, okay? But don't blame me if she says no, mate."

He finally manages to unlock the door, and makes sure to close it again before the cat can slip inside. While he heads up the stairs, he rehearses what he's going to tell the Doctor. She's  _ probably _ fine with cats; after all, she's never mentioned having an allergy or anything. Then again, O's only been living with her for a month and a half now, so for all he knows she could. And what if she thinks he's overstepping by asking to bring in an animal and kicks him out? But no, she wouldn't. Probably. Hopefully.

His fingers shake an embarrassing amount when he opens the door to the flat. As he steps inside, he smells the rather distinctive sharpness in the air that means the Doctor's been tinkering with something electric and interesting - probably fixing the toaster that she broke earlier in the week. And, true to his guess, she's sitting on the sofa, leaned over the coffee table with a look of determination furrowing her brow. That fades quickly, though, when she hears him close the door and looks up with a smile.

"Oh good, you're home!" she says, and he tries not to blush at how sincerely  _ happy _ she sounds about that. It's probably just because she wants an extra pair of hands for a project.

"How do you feel about cats?" he asks.

The Doctor blinks at him, baffled. "The musical? It's not bad, but Andrew Lloyd Webber is rather unpleasant."

O laughs a little, then shakes his head. "No, the animal. There's a- well, I found this stray on my way home, and it followed me here. I think it knows I'm a better option than the streets. But this is your flat, really, and I didn't want to just bring it in without asking or anything."

"Oh." She puts down her tools and stands from the sofa, hands in her pockets. "I mean, I'm not allergic to them. I like cats, actually. Most of the time. Unless they're-" Cutting herself off, she meanders across the flat, nose scrunching up slightly. "Nothing wrong with cats."

"So, would you be alright if I brought it in?" O tries to sound like it's not a big deal. "I can take it to a shelter or something when I get the chance, but I don't want to just leave it. It seems friendly."

A strange, soft look flickers across the Doctor's eyes for a moment. Almost… proud, maybe, or fond. It's gone just as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a smile, and O brushes it off as nothing.

"Sure," she says brightly. "It can stay. Been a long time since I had a cat."


	5. 5 - Empty Flat

O is fairly used to coming home to an empty flat during the week. The Doctor works weird, inconsistent hours; some days she's gone before he even finishes breakfast, while others she seems to work completely from home. He doesn't mind, really, particularly not since acquiring Theta. She lives her life, he lives his, and when they manage to overlap they eat dinner together and talk about whatever topic their rambling conversations end up on.

Still, waking up on a Saturday to have the flat completely to himself is strange. Theta's at the vet for another round of shots and won't need to be picked up until the next day, the Doctor is spending the weekend with her mysterious friends, and so O is alone for at least a day.

He doesn't really have any other people to hang out with. Most of his coworkers think that he's antisocial and awkward - which, to be fair, isn't incorrect - and he doesn't get out nearly enough to have made friends outside of work. But that's fine; he can have a nice day in and try out that new ginger biscuit recipe he found. O makes a mental amendment to that plan - he'll need to go shopping, first, since there isn't any ginger in the spice cabinet. It'll get him out of the house, at least.

The store is crowded with other people who must have had similar ideas when O gets there, and he tries to make his trip as quick as possible. He's halfway through trying to decide between two similar jars of ground ginger when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Naturally, he pulls it out to check who texted him, though there aren't many candidates. 

**The Doctor 💜💜:**

_ Good morning! _

**O:**

_ More like good noon by now, I think. _

**The Doctor 💜💜:**

_ Close enough _

_ Whatre you up to? _

**O:**

_ I'm at the store. Is there anything we need that I'm not remembering? _

**The Doctor 💜💜:**

_ Dont think so _

**O:**

_ Alright, I'll just grab ginger then. I'm making biscuits. _

She doesn't reply immediately, so O puts his phone away again and grabs one jar of the spice in question. The recipe only calls for two teaspoons, so he should have more than enough to make a few batches. He really hopes the Doctor likes ginger biscuits, because that's all that's going to be available for desert until he feels like baking again. Unless, of course, she decides to buy more custard creams.

It's just as the first batch of cookies is going into the oven that O finally hears his mobile go off again. He pulls off the oven mitts - simple purple ones that had been there when he moved in, though the Doctor almost never uses them - and unlocks his phone to see the Doctor's reply.

**The Doctor 💜💜:**

_ Why ginger biscuits? _

**O:**

_ I found a new recipe. Why, are you allergic or something? _

That would explain why there hadn't been any ginger in the cabinet. Maybe he should have asked her first, or-

**The Doctor 💜💜:**

_ No. Just curious _

_ Make plenty for me okay? _

**O:**

_ Will do! _


	6. +1 - Ginger Biscuits

It was a bad idea. She knows that it was. O is sweet and endearing and human, and he doesn't deserve to put up with her lowered inhibitions and poor decision-making skills. He didn't know any better when he made those biscuits, and it's not his fault that he thinks she's human.

It's certainly not his fault that she's now a mess in her darkened bedroom, crumbs of all over her sheets, one of the Master's spare comforters in her arms and practically on the verge of tears. She should have taken the out and told him that she was allergic. She should have had better self control.

And, while she's making a list, she should have stayed with the Master when they were on Gallifrey, or she should have been quicker to find him, or she should have been cleverer and figured out a way to fix him by now. But instead, she's in a flat with this muted, oblivious human imitation.

Sniffling in a way she never would sober, the Doctor clutches the comforter closer to her chest. After a few months, it no longer smells like the Master, but the soft black fabric is still nice to hold.

She misses him. She misses him  _ so much _ and while she doesn't truly begrudge O his existence, right now if she thought killing him would fix this, she'd do it in a heartbeat. No, no, that's… bad. Wrong. Not a path of thought that she wants to go any further down, because O hasn't done anything to deserve that.

He's nice. O is very, very nice. He cooks her breakfast some mornings and he watches her favorite movies with her and he helps with her projects and stares at her like she hung the stars in the sky. For all that he is, O is not subtle.

Part of the Doctor wishes that she could reciprocate the way he wants her to. But then, even if he was a normal human, she wouldn't be able to give him the domesticity that he tries so hard to create. She could show him the stars, but it wouldn't make a difference. Not really.

Another pitiful little sound wrenches out of her throat, and she rubs at her eyes. Getting stupidly drunk because she misses her best friend, fine; hiding in a bedroom that isn't even really hers so that O won't see, fine; but if there's one thing that she is  _ not _ going to do, it's cry. That's the last thing she needs right now, and once she starts, the tears will be impossible to stop.

A hesitant, polite knock at her bedroom door interrupts her already wobbly train of thought.

"Doctor?" O calls, soft but loud enough to hear. "Are you okay?"

"'M fine!" she replies. Even to her own ears, her voice sounds thick and unsteady. She's not fooling anyone, least of all him. He's perceptive, sometimes. Usually at the worst possible moments.

"Can I come in?" he asks gently.

She should tell him no. It's a terrible idea to let him see her like this. But just this once, just for tonight, she's going to be selfish and let him come in.

Slowly, she gets out of bed and goes to turn on the light and open the door. O is standing in the hall, looking deeply awkward about the whole affair, but he manages a comforting smile when he sees her.

"Had a bad day," the Doctor says. It's not a lie, but it's certainly not the whole truth. "'M fine now, really."

The way his eyebrows climb up his forehead is proof enough that she's in no state to lie. "Do you- is there anything I can do to help?"

_ Have you tried dying and letting the mass murderer in the back of your brain loose again? _ her brains suggest.  _ Maybe offer to undergo extremely risky psychic manipulation so that I can get my real best friend back instead of living a lie with you? _

"Can you hug me?" she asks instead, squashing the part of her that wants to be cruel to him out of spite. "I just… I think I need a hug."

O's eyes go huge and soft, as though she's just given him something wonderful. It's the other way around, really; he's giving her the chance to pretend that he's someone else, if only for a few short seconds.

"Er-" he stutters. "I mean- of course!"

The Doctor steps forward, and O wraps his arms around her like he's afraid she's going to break. Where most touch makes her flinch, his is comforting. It's not the same as the Master's - he's clearly trying not to take advantage, and it's making him hesitant - but it's good enough for her ginger-addled brains to pretend. Her head ends up resting on his shoulder, and O slowly tightens his hold so that she can just slump against him for a moment. If she tries hard enough, she can mentally add in an extra heartbeat, a partner to the one she can faintly hear beating in his chest.

He isn't the Master, and some part of the Doctor will always resent him for that. But for just a moment, she can love O a little bit too.


End file.
